Page 109 of Lotus

“There you go. That’s perfect.”

My mother’s kind voice and encouraging words bring a smile to my face. We are sitting in the garden, covered in dirt, while she teaches me how to plant vegetables.

“Will I have to eat the tomatoes that grow?” I ask worriedly.

Her laughter sweeps over to me with the summer breeze. “No. But you’ll have to eat the cucumbers!”

She tickles me, and I giggle. “Gross! Syd doesn’t like cucumbers, so neither do I.”

“Well, maybe you will both likethesecucumbers. They are extra special, after all.”

“Why, Mama?”

“Because they are planted by you, of course.”

I look at my mother, memorizing her caramel-colored hair, always tied up in a pretty knot. Her eyes are like mine, warm and sweet, like oatmeal cookies. My mama is so beautiful, and she loves me so much.

I stab the miniature shovel into the dirt, watching a few ants dance around the soil. The sun beats down on us as birds chirp from a nearby tree. I love gardening with my mother. It’s one of my favorite things to do. “Is this okay, Mama?” I ask, scooping out little piles of dirt.

“You’re doing a great job, Oliver,” she tells me, then throws a loving arm around my shoulders. “You just need to dig a little deeper…”

I open my eyes.

“What did you see, Oliver?”

Sitting up, heart thumping, I can’t help the smile from blooming on my lips, much like my mother’s precious garden. Memories of her trickle back in, wrapping me in a warm hug, a familiar smile, a comfort I have unknowingly missed for a very long time. Tears swell against my eyelids, a burning sense of loss mingling with the sweet memories.

Chasing butterflies, baking cookies, gardening, making crafts with Sydney at the kitchen table, watchingWinnie the Poohon that same living room sofa. Bedtime stories, tickle fights, board games, underdogs on the playground swings. Holidays and bonfires. Piggyback rides and sing-a-longs. Bubbles in the bathtub. Laughter.

Love.

My mother. My beautiful mother.

My God,how she must have missed me.

She’ll never know that I’m okay.

She’ll never, ever know.

Tears slide down my face as Dr. Malloy sits silently in the recliner across from me, her knees crossed, her smile wistful and knowing. It takes a few moments for me to collect myself, gather my bearings, and bring myself back to the present moment. Inhaling a grief-ridden sigh, I swallow, scrubbing a palm down my damp face. “I remember her,” I whisper softly.

Dr. Malloy nods, discarding her notebook beside her on a small table. “Your mother.”

“Yes.” My throat feels tight and ragged, stinging with remorse. “I… I think I’m done here. With these sessions, I mean.”

She nods again.

“I’m not certain I desire anymore answers. I feel at peace with the memories I’ve recovered,” I explain, licking my lips and tasting the salty tears that gathered there. “The hole I felt has been filled—she was all I was looking for.”

As I collect my jacket and thank Dr. Malloy for her services, she reaches out to shake my hand. “I’m glad I could help you, Oliver. I very much admire your strength.”

Strength.

I used to think strength was rooted in the fight.

Prevailing. Surviving the things determined to tear us down.

But true strength isn’t necessarilyovercomingthe fight—it ishowwe fight. It is not within the sword itself, but in how we wield it.

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